


Clyde Can't Cook

by Thistlepaw



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), My First South Park Fic, POV Third Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-04 20:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17904710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: Token invites Clyde home for dinner, only for Clyde to start crying because everything tastes so good! Turns out his friend has been living off boiled eggs and instant ramen, because neither he nor his widowed father really knows how to make a decent meal. So Token does what any good friend would do, and convinces the rest of the gang to help him teach Clyde to cook. Preferably without Clyde realizing what's going on...





	1. Tuesday: My dad and I can barely boil eggs

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first ever South Park fic, based on a series of very vivid dreams I had. I basically dreamed a bunch of half-finished episodes from an imaginary TV-show called Craig And Those Guys, where the characters were all around 16 years old and the art style was similar to that of Voltron (which I've never actually watched). Yes, hello, my brain is strange. 
> 
> None of the "episodes" I dreamed were actually finished, mind you. So I did have to use my imagination a little bit! Also, for this particular story, I found the following piece by Sibyl, The Kyman Devil on tumblr incredibly helpful in fleshing out the idea I already had:
> 
> http://yummykyman.tumblr.com/post/150331126539/can-you-do-a-character-analysis-thingy-on-clyde 
> 
> Please note: The raunchiest thing that will happen in this story is that Creek will have a cuddle at some point. I couldn't find any active warnings for that. ;)

All they’re doing is, they’re having dinner. That’s nothing out of the ordinary; Token Black brings Clyde Donovan home for dinner all the time. It’s not like their freezer is ever empty, after all. Today, Token even remembered to text his parents on the family group chat while he and Clyde were still in school – that’s why Dad made steaks for everyone. As a special treat, even though it’s only Tuesday. Clyde is crazy about Dad’s cooking, and Token’s parents like to do what they can. Sometimes, they do more than they should, too, but they’re getting better at holding back.  
“This is – ” Clyde begins, then realises he’s talking with his mouth full. He immediately claps a hand over his mouth, chewing furiously. Token who’s sitting across from him, next to Mom, can’t help but grin and shake his head. Sure, it’s good, but come _on_. “This is amazing,” Clyde says, grinning over at Dad, as soon as he’s swallowed it all. “I haven’t had anything this nice since…” He cuts himself off, ducking his head. “It’s just amazing,” he says again, reverently. Shaking his head like he just can’t _believe_ he gets to eat this. “I mean, my dad and I can barely boil eggs!”  
Even though his friend is still smiling, Token finds himself thinking, _Uh-oh_. Three, two, one… and there, now it’s painfully obvious that Clyde is crying.  
“Clyde, sweetheart…” Mom begins, pushing her chair back.  
“What’s wrong, son,” Dad asks, looking about as horrified as Token feels.  
“Nuh-nothing’s wrong,” Clyde sniffles, balling his left hand into a fist. Pressing that fist against his lips, like he’s trying to shove the sobs back in. His right hand, still gripping the steak-knife, is shaking on the tablecloth. “It’s just so… so good that I… I haven’t eaten anything this good since Mom…”  
Token is vaguely aware that his mother has stood up, that she’s walking briskly around the table. A small part of his mind is asking itself what it must feel like. To carry the grief everywhere, so that even the smallest, most unrelated thing becomes a reminder.  
“Come here,” Mom says, wrapping her arms around Clyde and pulling him face-first into her green cashmere sweater.  
“I’m sorry,” Clyde is saying, over and over again, while Mom rubs his back and kisses the top of his head, assuring him there’s nothing to be sorry for.  
“Now, now,” Dad mutters, patting Clyde’s shoulder awkwardly.  
Ever since Betsy Donovan died, Token will catch the adults looking at Clyde on the sly now and then. Like they’re watching for signs of… something. Dad is doing just that right now, and it’s making Token feel even more awful. Do they really think his friend is going to, to _flip_ the way his mother did? That it’s some kind of genetic thing, a ticking time-bomb in his DNA? Token’s mind is frantically churning, chewing it all over, scanning all the clues for a solution. What to do, what to do? Clyde can’t cook. So maybe Token – and the others too, because he’s not going to kick _this_ anthill on his own – can do something about _that_? He may not be a, a Michelin chef or anything, but Token _does_ know his way around the kitchen.  
The Black family has a no-phones rule at the dinner table, but nobody’s paying attention to him right now. So Token can pull his iphone out of his back pocket without being seen, hiding it under the table. He quickly slides his finger across the screen to unlock it. Opens a new group chat with the speed of Flash Gordon himself; a four-person chat instead of the usual five. _Emergency_ , he types, and hits “send”. _What can you cook? Don’t tell Clyde_ , he adds, as an afterthought. 

Jimmy Valmer is in bed when another message ticks into Token’s secret new group chat, making his phone buzz on Jimmy’s chest. He’s lying on top of the covers, his swollen ankles propped up on one of the backrest cushions from the couch downstairs, desperate for any kind of distraction. So Jimmy picks his phone up on the first buzz, more than half expecting it to be a long, mis-spelled Tweek rant. Instead, it’s from Craig: _Don’t send Tweek a message that just says Emergency._  
This is followed by a rare Craig selfie, taken while tilting his phone right under his own chin – the better to show off how both his nostrils are stuffed with bloodied toilet paper.  
Jimmy snorts, he can just imagine what must’ve happened. Tweek and Craig all snuggled up on the hideous old purple couch at Tweek’s house, playing X-box. Tweek casually checking his phone, screaming, and head-butting Craig in the face.  
So what if he can’t get out of bed right now? All things considered, Jimmy is having a pretty entertaining afternoon.  
His mom has long since stopped yelling at him for not being more careful; when she saw him hobbling inside today, all she did was sigh. But pfft, who says you can’t play basketball on crutches? It wasn’t easy, but it was almost kind of fun for a while. Still, going to Token’s house with him and Clyde had definitely not been an option. It was hard enough to hide how much this hurt, after class and on the bus home.  
Rolling his shoulders, stiff from a whole day on his feet, Jimmy winces as he bends forwards to adjust one of the ice packs. Dad bought a whole bunch of those wraparound gel ones online. They come in little bags with a Velcro strip, so you can slide them in and wrap them around whatever bit of yourself you’ve managed to hurt. These things are genius. No more frozen peas getting his duvet all soggy.  
Hang on, Tweek’s typing something now… and deleting it… typing again…  
_Whoops sorry brb_ , Token writes, just as Tweek sends an emoji – that screaming smiley clutching its own face. Then another message from Craig ticks in: _@Token: Dumbass._  
_@Craig: you anime trope, you_ , Jimmy types, because he just can’t help himself. Tweek did just give the guy a nosebleed, so that joke is just too obvious not to crack. _So what can you guys all cook_ , he adds, chewing his lip.  
_OH Jesus I don’t know_ , and _@Jimmy: Asshole_ tick in from Tweek and Craig in quick succession. Token doesn’t seem to be online anymore, so he’s probably off dealing with whatever made him set up this chat in the first place.  
_Mom has a recipe for enchiladas_ , Jimmy types, chewing his lip. _I’ve helped out making it before. Maybe I can get her to make it together tomorrow._  
Suddenly Token pops online again. _Then invite Clyde for dinner. Both of you can “help out” and that way it’s less obvious that you’re teaching Clyde to cook._ With that, he’s offline again. Huh.  
_Might work since we’re hitting the gym_ , Jimmy types. Before he hits Send, he looks up from his phone. Flexes his feet thoughtfully, wriggles his toes a little, hissing under his breath. Not exactly pain-free, but he’ll probably be okay to work out after school tomorrow. _Just let me ask my mom_ , he adds; then sends the message. Chances are she’ll say yes, though. Jimmy’s parents are way more pleased than they need to be, about how Clyde’s taken an interest in Jimmy’s strength training and physio. Not to mention how Clyde’s dad is always happy to order in the dorky-ass special shoes and insoles Jimmy needs through his store – and only charges them wholesale rates, too.  
A new message from Craig: _So we’re secretly teaching Clyde to cook? Is that the plan?_  
They all wait, but there is nothing more from Token’s side.  
_OH gOD how are we gonna do that WITHOUT cLYDE figuring it out hes not that stupid?!?! AND all I can do is BAKE!!!_  
There is a long pause, long enough that Jimmy figures those two are probably discussing something. It’s funny, he was so weirded out at first, when Craig started dating Tweek. When he more or less dragged Tweek into their gang for good. They’d all hung out with Tweek before, off and on, so it wasn’t like they didn’t _know_ him already. That probably helped. The hand-holding, the pet names… they all got used to that eventually. At first, Tweek hadn’t even talked that much. He’d just sat next to Craig, pressed against his side, sipping his coffee or picking at his fingernails. Jumping a foot if anyone so much as said his name.  
_Tweek can poach a kickass egg_ , Craig replies at last. _And he makes bread rolls for the coffee shop. So he and Clyde can bake those, and then as like a bonus dlc they can make that avocado toast they sell at Tweak bros. And I’ve got this chicken and rice thing my mom showed me. It’s super easy._  
Jimmy nods to himself. That’s not a bad idea. Avocado, egg and chicken, from what Clyde’s said, those are all good sources of protein. He should be happy to learn stuff like that. Clyde’s always trying to eat healthy and build muscle mass – that’s why the gym regime, after all. That’s why he’s on two different sports teams at school.  
Tweek adds, _I can do SAturday morning before opening time._ It’s actually starting to take shape now, this half-assed plan of theirs. Jimmy responds to Tweek with just a thumbs-up, because Craig is typing again, and he doesn’t want to confuse things, say something Craig will have to respond to. Finally, Craig’s message pops up.  
_Okay, so how about this:_  
_Jimmy – enchiladas - Wed_  
_Me – chicken thing - Thurs_  
_Token - ?? - Fri_  
_Tweek – bread rolls – Sat_  
“Chicken thing”, Jimmy mutters out loud, shaking his head. It’s a good plan, though. _Sounds good just let me check w mom_ , he replies, and looks up at his feet again. Willing the swelling to go down, before Mom comes back in here to inspect them. The less he’s wrecked himself today, the more likely she is to say yes. 

“Oh God,” Tweek Tweak mutters, tossing his phone down on the couch. “I can’t do it! I can’t get Clyde to – gnk – come _here!_ ” He jumps to his feet, starts to pace barefoot across the carpet.  
“Then get him to come to the coffee shop,” Craig Tucker tells him, infuriatingly calm, as he pulls the toilet paper out of his left nostril. Carefully feeling for more blood with his fingertip.  
“Gah! Like Clyde would even hang out with me if you’re not there!” Tweek can feel the tick starting up again – his right eye, this time, blinking furiously. “Clyde hates me!”  
Craig, who was just about to pull the second paper out, lets his hand drop to his lap instead. “Okay, honey,” he says, still so calm it makes Tweek want to scream, “That doesn’t make any sense. There’s no reason Clyde would hate you.”  
Tweek growls out loud in frustration. “He’s got every reason! Gah!” Tweek digs his hands into his own hair, tugging as hard as he dares. “I stole his best friend!”  
“Huh,” Craig says, and now he does yank the last bit of toilet tissue out, before he sniffs his nose cautiously. At least the bleeding seems to have stopped. “You seem to forget how I’ve got this thing called free will,” Craig drawls, unfurling his long legs and standing up. He tosses the bloodied tissue in the waste paper basket at the corner of the coffee table, like he’s tossing a basketball through a hoop. “Stop that,” he adds, almost absently, as he comes over top pull Tweek’s hands free. Even though Craig is really strong, his grip is gentle. “It’s not like I stopped being his friend, just ‘cause I started dating you.”  
“But, Clyde hates me,” Tweek repeats weakly, bumping his head against Craig’s chest.  
“And how do you know that, babe?” Craig makes it sound like this is some kind of maths problem they’re solving together, like he’s only vaguely interested in Tweek’s reply, because he’s already worked out the answer in advance.  
“I just _know_ ,” Tweek snaps, burrowing his nose deeper into Craig’s NASA T-shirt. “Because _I’d_ hate me,” he mutters, feeling his cheeks start to burn.  
“Clyde _likes_ you,” Craig says, very firmly. “Trust me on this, honey.” He grabs Tweek by the shoulders, pulls him off his chest so he can give him clear, unflinching eye contact. “I flat-out asked _all_ the guys, years ago, if they liked you and wanted to hang out with you. And they all said yes.”  
Oh Jesus! Of course they’d said yes, when Craig put it like that! He’d probably made it sound like he was going to hunt them all down, and murder them one by one, if they said no!  
Tweek drops his gaze to his own bare feet, digs his toes into the dark brown carpet. “How’s your nose,” he mutters, desperate for a distraction.  
“My nose is fine, babe. And you can totally do this. Okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, even though he’s far from sure that he can.


	2. Wednesday: At least let me apologize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's part two! Just so you know, I already finished the whole story, and am planning on posting a chapter a day for the rest of the week. That's just how I make sure all the pieces fit together - I mean, one of the very first scenes was actually written last. 
> 
> In case you're wondering about the joke Jimmy told Clyde in the fourth grade, it's the second part of this deleted scenes video on youtube:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BL57BjBeKdc  
> Proceed with caution, because the joke is pretty grim. ^_^;;
> 
> Whoa, so many of you stopped by to read the first chapter! That was a nice surprise when I logged in to post today's chapter. Thanks for all the kudos you guys left on it! If any of you want to leave a comment and say hi, I'd love to get to know you a little - this is my first fic and I don't know _anybody_ here yet! :)

After a good workout, Clyde’s always _starving_. It’s a weird fact of trying to stay in shape that you don’t just have to eat _right_ ; you also have to eat _enough_. He brought two packed lunches today – sandwiches and boiled eggs, as usual. One to have during actual lunch; and one for right after football practice, when he’s always hungry enough to eat an entire sixth-grader, BMX-bike and all. He even remembered to put two protein bars in his gym kit – one for him, one for Jimmy – but wound up wolfing his down in the changing room at the gym. After a round of circuit training, followed by spotting each other at free weights, Clyde feels like there’s an actual vortex in his stomach. Like he could just open his mouth and start sucking in cars and people. So when Jimmy casually mentions enchiladas, he can’t _believe_ his luck.  
“Dude, are you sure they won’t mind,” he asks, unchaining his bike from the rails outside the gym. Hoping he doesn’t _look_ as hopeful and pathetic as he _sounds_. Clyde _loves_ Mexican food.  
“P-p-positive,” Jimmy replies, looking vaguely annoyed. Clyde thinks he can guess why. Jimmy’s stutter has improved a lot over the years. But, when he’s not said anything for a while, when he’s got to start on a new topic from scratch, that’s when he tends to get stuck. Well, that and swearing, which is kind of cute. “M-my m-m-mom told me to ask you yesterday, I just forgot.” You can practically _see_ Jimmy kick-starting that sentence in his head, like there’s a hurdle he knows he’s got to jump to get the first couple of words out in one piece. At least no-one has _ever_ tried to pick on him over that stutter – or anything else – since Jimmy moved to South Park. All it takes is a raised eyebrow from Craig, and even _Jason White_ will keep his stupid mouth shut.  
“Aw, thanks!” Clyde grins at Jimmy, not even trying to hide how happy this makes him. He was supposed to be eating a pot noodle on his own for dinner; Dad’s working in the shop until closing time tonight. Clyde straightens his bike out, holds it steady so Jimmy can climb on the back. “Milord, your carriage awaits,” he says, in the shitty British accent he only ever does for Jimmy. Literally nobody else finds that accent funny, but there’s something to be said for draping a sweaty towel over your arm and asking Jimmy if “Milord” fancies being yanked off the bench. God knows Jimmy’s touchy enough about accepting help from anybody, but if you can turn it into a joke… Well then, you’re pretty much home free.  
It’s odd, but nice, this routine they've fallen into. Clyde thinks about it as he pedals back towards Jimmy’s house, while that warm glow spreads through his chest – the one he gets from pushing his muscles further. Jimmy gets it, totally gets it, why he loves this so much. Working out and seeing himself improve, getting stronger and faster. Even if Jimmy’s own improvements are much slower and smaller than Clyde’s, they’re still real. And worth a hundred times more, since they’re so hard won.  
Mrs Valmer is unpacking groceries when the two boys get in, Jimmy shouldering the door open after he’s unlocked it. There are unspoken rules for where you help out and where you step back; and Clyde’s always known to step back here. Jimmy can open his own front door, thank you very much.  
“Hi boys!” She seems so happy to see them, and she’s already got an apron on. “Daddy just called, Jimmy, and he’s getting off early! So if you boys help me, maybe we can beat him to it, okay?”  
“Okay, Mrs Valmer,” Clyde says, grinning back at her. Jimmy’s so lucky, he has the nicest Mom _and_ she’s a housewife. As the chief of the fire department, Jimmy’s dad makes enough for all three of them to live on. So Mrs Valmer makes _all_ their food from scratch, cleans the _entire_ house, and doesn’t _ever_ seem to get stressed out about stuff.  
“C-come on, we should w-wash our hands,” Jimmy says, going over to the kitchen sink. Barely stuttering at all; since he talked quite a bit on the way here.  
Huh, of course you wash your hands before making food. Clyde can’t believe he’s forgotten that. It’s just been so long since he even baked, or made anything other than instant ramen.  
“You two are on chopping duty,” Mrs Valmer says, placing a colander of those long, skinny red peppers on the kitchen table. She’s put a plate underneath it, from that faded floral set Jimmy’s parents have apparently had since they got married. It’s kind of ugly, but in a nice way – mustard yellow blossoms and green vines climbing around the edges of the plate. Clyde kind of gets why mustard was his mom’s favourite colour – it’s just… nice.  
“Right,” Clyde says, looking down at that plate. Only a _mom_ would think of something like that, of putting a plate under the colander so it wouldn’t drip all over the table. Jimmy’s already using one crutch to pull himself a chair, hooking it around the chair leg. It scrapes a bit, as the chair is dragged across the floor tiles, shaking Clyde out of his thoughts. Of course, they should both sit down to cut these. Easier for Jimmy that way; having his hands free without having to worry about his balance. And if Clyde’s sitting down too, Jimmy won’t be made to feel self-conscious.  
“Jimmy, I’m giving you the onion.” Mrs Valmer puts a green chopping board down in front of her son, followed by a big bowl of water. It’s a serving bowl from the same set, and if you look at it closely you can see the hairline cracks creeping through the porcelain. “That’s for rinsing your hands in,” she adds, for Clyde’s benefit. “If your eyes start running while you’re cutting up an onion, you absolutely mustn’t rub them, okay? Just hold them under the tap, or stick them in cold water. I promise that helps.”  
Ah right, so that’s why the bowl – so Jimmy won’t have to get up in a hurry. Mrs Valmer is probably the world’s number one expert in sneakily helping people, Clyde concludes. Jimmy’s already getting started on the onion, peeling the dry, brown top layer off it before he goes to work on it with a small, white-bladed knife.  
“Here, Clyde,” Mrs Valmer puts down a second chopping board, also green, in front of him. “You get to do the peppers. Can you core them, and put the cores to one side? We don’t want to eat the seeds. Let me show you how.”  
Leaning over Clyde’s shoulder so that on lock of her long black hair tickles his nose, Mrs Valmer slices a pepper from end to end, breaking it apart. Cupping one half in her palm, she gently cuts the core out, without dislodging a single seed. Oh, so that’s what she meant! “Just be careful not to cut your fingers,” she says, straightening up before she walks over to turn the oven on. “That’s a ceramic knife, so it’s extra sharp.”  
Ceramic knife?! What the hell? Clyde picks it up carefully, feeling like he’s suddenly grown enormous, clumsy ogre hands. Next to him, Jimmy stifles a laugh. “D-don’t worry, you’re not gonna break it,” his friend whispers, waggling his bushy eyebrows. “Mom says ceramic knives are s-stronger than s-s-steel.”  
Ah, okay then. Clyde lets out a relieved sigh. Makes sense, for a housewife to keep up with the latest knife trends, the way Dad has to do with shoes. He gets to work, trying to copy what he just saw Jimmy’s mom do. It’s harder than it looks, the seeds kind of go everywhere, but he manages to scrape them all off the pepper. Watching Jimmy work, with slow, sure cuts, he’s reminded of something Token once told him. About how lucky Jimmy is, to have such steady hands. That normally someone with his type of CP would have trouble holding a knife, or writing with a pen. Token’s done a _lot_ of reading about it, which is part of how Token goes about being your friend. Clyde remembers seeing a book sticking out of Token’s backpack once, with the title “COPING WITH GRIEF” in big, golden letters embossed on a white cover. They’d been ten years old at the time, but Token’s parents have always let him read whatever books he wants. Token had shoved the book deeper into his backpack as soon as he’d noticed Clyde staring, getting so embarrassed he’d almost been angry.  
“Jimmy, can you come stir this?”  
“Okay, Mom!” The chair scrapes as Jimmy gets up, steadying himself on the table. Not using his crutches for once, but supporting himself on the back of the chair before he grabs onto the kitchen counter with his other hand, hauling himself over. Clyde, who instinctively got up when Jimmy did, wanders over to where Mrs Valmer has her recipe book open on the counter. Just to make it look like he wanted to read the recipe, rather than make a grab for his friend in case he should fall. As Clyde flips through the book, he sees how it’s all handwritten recipes, with a few magazine clippings glued in, too.  
“Clyde, come here and cut the chicken for me?”  
“Sure, Mrs Valmer!”  
Jimmy’s mom really has a system for this stuff – the meat gets its own chopping board, a red one. She shows Clyde how she wants him to cut it, into little cubes, after slicing out the big white tendons or whatever they are. “You’re doing great,” she tells him, before she goes to wash her hands in the sink. “Remember that, Clyde,” she goes on, putting a smaller bowl by Jimmy’s elbow, “Always wash your hands after you’ve handled raw meat! And Jimmy, put the vegetables in here before you give Clyde the frying pan, okay?”  
“Okay, Mom,” Jimmy says again, just as the doorbell rings. His mother dashes off to answer it, leaving the two boys alone in the kitchen.  
“I love your Mom,” Clyde says spontaneously, grinning over at his friend.  
“Only p-platonically, I hope,” Jimmy fires back, with a wicked glint in his eyes.  
“Jesus, Jimmy,” Clyde groans, even as he starts to laugh. “Your own mom?! Jesus!”  
“Nothing is sacred,” Jimmy intones with mock seriousness. It’s the rule he’s lived by since they were kids – Jimmy will poke fun of literally anything, especially his own disability.  
Clyde goes back to cutting the chicken, waiting for Jimmy to rip on him some more – maybe offer to give him a tour of his mom’s underwear drawer when they’re done in the kitchen – but instead, Jimmy’s gone unusually quiet.  
“Clyde,” he says at last, in a tone so different from his usual warm, jokey tone that it’s almost scary.  
“What?” Aw crap, did Jimmy see him just then? Hovering behind him in case he fell? Clyde turns around, fully prepared to apologize, a smile stretching across his face… and freezing, when he sees Jimmy’s expression. “Jimmy, are you okay?”  
“There was this o-one time,” Jimmy says, lifting the frying pan off the hot plate. Tilting his head so Clyde won’t see his face – or maybe so he won’t have to look at Clyde’s face – while he scrapes the vegetables into the bowl with that plastic scoop thing he’s been stirring with. “W-when I cracked a joke I really should’ve k-k-kept to myself.”  
Oh, so that’s what this is about? “You mean,” Clyde says, and his own voice sounds almost as flat as Craig’s, “When you compared my mom’s death to an abortion?”  
From behind them, there is a crash. Both boys whip their heads around, and there’s Jimmy’s mom, standing in the middle of an expanding puddle of water. Her hands are held out in mid-air, like she’s still holding the bowl that now lies shattered at her feet – that big one she put water in earlier. Damn, Clyde didn’t even hear her come back in! “James Valmer,” she says, and she sounds so… betrayed, so beyond disappointed, that Clyde feels like someone’s jabbed a great big icicle through his chest.  
“It’s okay, Mrs Valmer,” he yelps, grabbing both the kitchen towels that are hanging from the oven door and running over, dropping to his knees in front of her. “I’m not sore about that anymore! That was years ago! And look,” he holds up the biggest piece he can find, amongst the shards on the floor, “I bet we can even put this back together! There’s only seven… okay, so _ten_ pieces, but that’ll be a piece of cake!”  
“H-hey,” Jimmy says, from over by the stove. “I’ve regretted that since we w-were _nine_. At least l-let me apologize.”  
Clyde looks down at the shards in his hands. He remembers that day, all right. His first day back in school, after Mom died. He’d felt like all the other kids were staring at him, all thinking the same thing. The only thing that even gave him the guts to go to school that day, had been knowing that Token and Craig would be there – and Jimmy. Clyde had kept telling himself in his head that, no matter what anybody else said, those three would have his back. So when Jimmy told that joke, he… He remembers slamming his locker shut, turning his back on Jimmy and the other boys, walking right out of school... And right into a snowstorm. To his shell-shocked nine-year-old self, the wind had sounded like Mom’s voice, just before she died. Like Mom screaming. Nobody had tried to stop him, but Token had run after him, not even bothering to put his jacket on properly. Skipping school without a second thought. Wrapping both his arms around Clyde’s arm, like Token had been afraid he’d blow away or something. “Clyde, listen,” Token had said, as they trudged back to Clyde’s house in the snow, huddled together like an old married couple. “You know Jimmy didn’t mean it like that.” Clyde hadn’t replied. But of course he’d _known_.  
And now, even though it’s been years, he can suddenly hear his Mom’s voice. Clear as a bell. _For your sister’s sake, please!_ Like she’s dying all over again right behind him, and all he needs to do is turn his head to see her. To watch her die, again.  
He’s vaguely aware that both Jimmy and Mrs Valmer are saying his name.  
“Okay,” Clyde says, wrenching himself back into the present. He blinks, realising Jimmy’s leaning over him – wasn’t he at the stove just now? – one arm braced against the table-top, the other on Clyde’s shoulder, opening and closing around the rotator cuff. And, even more mortifying, Jimmy’s mom is cupping his cheek in her hand, like he’s a little kid or something! “Sorry,” he says, almost startled by how loud his own voice is. “Was I spacing out?”  
“L-like an autistic kid at a m-m-model railway,” Jimmy jokes weakly, earning himself a weak slap on the arm from his mom.  
“Don’t worry about gluing this, Clyde,” Mrs Valmer says, spreading out one of the towels he brought over – a hundred years ago, now – and delicately placing the pottery shards on it. “I’ve finally broken enough of this ugly old set to justify ordering a nice new one.”  
“Dad w-wouldn’t let her, before,” Jimmy adds, pulling his hand back when Clyde clumsily gets to his feet.  
“Oh.” Clyde is starting to get seriously embarrassed. “Right. So I guess we can… Fry the chicken now?”

The enchiladas turn out amazing, for all that it takes _forever_ to make them. They sort of taste extra good, Clyde concludes, _because_ it took so long. Even though he scared himself shitless, pouring too much sunflower oil in the pan when he went to fry the chicken, and got his hand splatted with little drops of angrily spitting oil.  
While the four of them are eating, Mrs Valmer says how Clyde did so well helping out, he can probably make these on his own now, and Jimmy chokes on his food and hisses “Mom!” under his breath. But Mr Valmer thinks that’s such a good idea that he runs into his office and photocopies the recipe for Clyde anyway, on his crappy old scanner/printer combo. It comes out all shaky, but still perfectly legible.  
Best of all, they’ve made enough that Clyde can take the leftovers home to share with Dad. Mrs Valmer just wraps the whole baking dish up in some cling-film and slips it in a fabric Wholefoods bag, telling him to “just bring it back whenever”.  
Jimmy walks him to the door, even though Clyde can see how tired he is, how his legs are literally shaking. “Hey, Jimmy,” he says, pulling on his shoes, feeling so stupid that he ties the laces in an extra bow rather than look up at his friend. “I really… appreciate how you’re sorry about… you know. But, like… I forgave you years ago.”  
Clyde gives a start as Jimmy’s hand lands on his head, mussing his hair. “Thanks,” Jimmy says, even though it’s Clyde who should be thanking _him_. No jokes, for once – just that thanks, and a smile that almost seems… shy.  
“No problem, dude!” Clyde stands up, relieved to have got _that_ over with. “See you in school tomorrow!”


	3. Thursday: Then you eat it, dumbass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, here's chapter three, which I guess I could have called Cooking with Craig, but... *shrugs* If you're a "returning customer", thank you so much for sticking with my fic! If you just found it, welcome! I hope you'll like it. 
> 
> Just so you know, the sauce Craig teaches Clyde to make is totally real, and tastes amazing. My mother taught me how to make it, after an ex-colleague taught it to _her_. So I'm just spreading the good word here. If you try to make the sauce based on what I've written here, please let me know how it goes! (And remember go easy on the orange juice.)
> 
> By the way, Jimmy being Tricia's favorite of the gang is totally a headcannon of mine. Not based on anything I've seen on the show, I can't even remember seeing her interacting with her brother's friends at all. But since Jimmy is (mostly) a nice guy, I figured if anybody had the patience to let a younger sibling explain Sailor Moon or whatever to him, it'd be Jimmy.

“Oh yeah,” Craig says, as he slides his school bag off his shoulder and onto the hallway floor, “It’s my turn to make dinner. You don’t mind helping out, right?”  
Clyde, who’s been shrugging out of his football jacket, stops dead. Huh? That’s… odd. Since when does Craig’s family have any kind of dinner rota? Then again, it’s been a while since Clyde had dinner here. “I don’t mind,” he says, because it’s easier than asking. Better than drawing attention to the fact that he can’t even remember the last time he came over.  
Just then, Tricia comes bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time. “You’re back,” Craig’s little sister yells happily, catching herself on the bannister. Wrapping both arms around it to steady herself. Then she looks at Clyde, and it’s like a cloud passes over her face. “Oh,” Tricia says. “It’s just you.”  
“Pardon _me_ for not being Jimmy,” Clyde mutters, rolling his eyes while he busies himself hanging his backpack up on the coatrack. Jimmy’s been Tricia’s favourite since he moved here, what, is it six or seven years ago now? When he’d happily play My Little Pony with her on the living room rug, and let Tricia decorate his crutches with Disney Princess stickers. Turns out Jimmy always wanted a little sister; only his parents wouldn’t risk having more kids.  
“Way to be rude,” Craig drawls, casually flipping her off before he walks into the kitchen.  
“ _You’re_ rude,” Tricia yells, flipping off Craig’s unresponsive back.  
“Sorry about that,” Craig says, as Clyde shuts the kitchen door behind him. He actually looks a little embarrassed, which is something you don’t see too often.  
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, I didn’t know _you_ could cook,” Clyde says, only half teasing, when Craig slaps an Economy Sized packet of Safeway’s own-brand chicken down on the kitchen counter.  
Craig looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “This is sooo easy,” he drawls, “Even you could do it. That was a joke,” he adds, when Clyde doesn’t respond.  
“Oh, ah, sure!” Clyde quickly grins at his friend, feeling like he’s out of practice with this. Even though they live next door to each other, the two of them don’t hang out alone nearly as often as before. Craig’s got… stuff going on now, and Clyde was brought up to know when he shouldn’t intrude. “You want me to cut it up?”  
Craig is frowning, eyebrows climbing all the way up under his knitted hat. “I guess you’d better,” he says after a second. “Easier to make sure it’s cooked through that way. We don’t want to get the shits,” he adds, and this time, Clyde knows to laugh.  
While he cuts the meat into cubes, the way Jimmy’s mom showed him yesterday, Clyde thinks about how… grown up this all is. The cooking, the _boyfriend_ … It’s like Craig is miles ahead of him, and all Clyde can do is run to keep up. “All of it,” he asks, and Craig grunts in agreement. That’s a _lot_ of chicken. But it’s not like Clyde ever cooks for a whole family, so what does he know?  
“Dude,” Craig is saying, hauling a five-kilo sack of long-grain rice out of the pantry, “You know the rule for boiling rice?”  
Clyde blinks. “There’s a rule?”  
“One-and-a-half cup of water for every one cup of rice,” Craig says, pouring from the sack and into a mug with World’s Best Dad printed on it in fading blue letters. “So like, if you’re making it for two people, its two cups of rice and three cups of water.” From the mug, he pours the rice into a big saucepan, before he fills it up again.  
“Oh.” Clyde is trying to remember if Mom ever said anything like that. But the truth is; she never expected him to help out with cooking, except for setting the table. Oh, and baking, of course. That was one time when it actually didn’t matter if he made a mess.  
“You mind getting the water?” Craig put the same mug, the World’s Best Dad one, down in front of the chopping board Clyde’s been cutting up the chicken on. “I put in four cups of rice, so how much water do we need?”  
“Uh?” Clyde blinks, frantically spooling through his memory. “Six cups?”  
“Good,” Craig replies, turning his back on him as he opens the fridge door. “Just wash your hands first, all right?” He takes out a carton of Trader Joe’s orange juice and a smaller carton of… _something_ , and puts both next to the stove.  
“Right.” This is so weird. It’s like when Token tries to teach him maths, and makes Clyde talk him through an equation. Clyde washes his hands, pours six cups of water into the rice pan, and turns the hotplate on. He’s not sure if Craig wants it on high or low heat, and he’d feel stupid asking, so in the end, he sets it to medium. Then he goes back to cutting the meat up, while Craig gets out a bottle of soy sauce, a measuring jug, and a fork.  
“Check this out,” Craig says, emptying the whole little carton – marked _crème fraiche_ – into the jug, scraping out the leftover bits with the fork. “This is like, the easiest sauce _ever_. You just need to make sure it doesn’t get too thin,” he adds, carefully pouring the tiniest amount of soy sauce into the cream. He’s using the fork to mix it in, adding a few more drops and turning the mixture a darkish brown. “And I know this sounds nuts, but it just needs a _little_ bit of orange juice. Then it’ll taste amazing.”  
“That does sound pretty nuts,” Clyde agrees, watching Craig pour in the orange juice as cautiously as if this is some kind of explosive science experiment. The sauce gradually turns more of a golden brown colour. “Now what?”  
“Nope, that’s it.” Craig shrugs. “Told you it was easy. Now we just need to fry the chicken, and then pour this over when it’s almost done.”  
“And then what?”  
“Then you eat it, dumbass,” Craig drawls, and Clyde laughs as he tries to elbow Craig in the side – only Craig avoids him easily. “Just finish cutting the chicken up, okay? And I’ll make sure we don’t burn the rice.”  
“Okay,” Clyde says, grinning like an idiot. Letting Craig boss him around is such a warm, familiar thing. Doesn’t matter if it’s cooking, or tuning their bikes, or even when they were kids, building Lego or playing astronauts – it’s just nice to step back and let Craig call the shots. Clyde’s missed this, more than he even realised.  
They work in companionable silence for a while – Craig’s never been much of a talker, and Clyde’s got more than enough to keep up with, making sure he doesn’t burn the chicken. At least he got some chicken-frying training in yesterday, at Jimmy’s. Now he’s careful not to add too much oil at once. Craig’s only given him a wooden ladle to flip the chicken pieces with, but at least the handle’s nice and long. Meanwhile, Craig keeps checking the rice, lifting the lid off the pot and stirring it every two minutes or so. Clyde makes a mental note of that – you really do need to be careful with rice, huh.  
“You know,” Craig suddenly says, in that quiet way he sometimes gets. When you can tell he’s chewed something over for a long time. “Your mom used to scare the shit out of me.”  
Clyde blinks at him. It’s so out of the blue that he has no idea what to say. Those words just hang there in the air between them. And Craig is staring right at him, like he’s refusing to apologize for what he’s said. “I don’t,” Clyde begins, then stops. Sure, Mom would get annoyed with him sometimes, but never with his friends. Never with _Craig_. “Why would…?”  
“Because of how she’d shout at you,” Craig says, in a calm, measured tone that tells Clyde he’s thought this whole conversation through in advance. “Like, out of nowhere. From zero to a hundred.”  
Oh, that. Well, that’s easy.  
“Mom only shouted so she wouldn’t have to hit me.”  
“Dude,” Craig snaps, “Listen to yourself!”  
Clyde can feel his cheeks starting to burn, and quickly looks down at the frying pan. All the chicken pieces are sizzling away merrily, so maybe he should flip them now? He grabs the ladle and starts tipping the pieces over. They’ve turned a nice golden brown on the bottom, so that was probably a good call. He can feel Craig staring at him, but there’s no way he can look up. No way he can meet Craig’s eyes right now.  
“All right,” Craig says at last. Like he’s given up, but he’s not happy about it. “I think we can add the sauce now. Here, you pour.” He nudges Clyde’s arm, and Clyde takes the measuring jug from him.  
“Thanks,” he mutters, risking a quick look up. And whew, Craig doesn’t look _that_ pissed. More sort of… sad. 

Clyde shifts his grip on the plastic bag Craig sent him home with, looping the handles over his wrist so he can unlock the door without putting it down on the steps. There are two old plastic takeout containers in there, one packed with chicken and sauce, the other with rice. There’s also a zip-lock bag with the leftover iceberg lettuce that Craig’s Mom cut up, scandalised that they hadn’t thought to include any vegetables. They really did cook way too much for five people – how much does Craig think his baby sister can eat, anyway? But, since that means he got to take the extras back for Dad, Clyde didn’t exactly complain.  
“Dad? Are you back yet?”  
The house is empty, even though he stayed at Craig’s for homework after they’d all finished eating. Clyde hangs his jacket up on the pegs in the hallway, then lets his backpack drop to the floor, still holding on to the food he made. Well, Craig helped him, but even so – he made this. It’s still warm, it seems like such a waste to put it in the fridge now, but who knows how long Dad will be. He’s probably cashing up, back at the store. And then, he’s got the drive home from the mall… The clock above the kitchen door tells Clyde that it’s already quarter past ten.  
He puts the boxes in the fridge anyway – on the otherwise empty middle shelf – with the little bag of lettuce on top. Then he tears a sheet off the grocery pad, and writes a quick message on it:  
_Hey Dad! Dinner’s in the fridge!_  
Using the pen as a weight to keep it from slipping to the floor, Clyde places the note on top of a pot noodle Dad must have left out on the table before driving to work this morning. Hard to say if he meant for Clyde or himself to eat it, but it’s curry flavour – Clyde’s favourite. So… maybe this was Dad’s way of making sure he’d come home to a hot meal? There is an awful, tugging sensation inside Clyde’s chest, but he swallows it down quickly. Then, he goes upstairs to take a shower, and it’s like each one of his footsteps on the stairs echoes through the whole empty house.


	4. Friday: Don’t try that Craig shit on with me!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! We're over the halfway mark of this little fic now, and I'm so happy people are still reading it! 
> 
> The idea that we sometimes consciously, and sometimes subconsciously, copy little "bits" of our friends is one that fascinates me. Like, a lot of people do this - borrow a phrase here, a gesture there, and to me this seems pretty normal. But, when does it become too much? If you think someone is so cool, you might as well just copy _everything_ about them... maybe there's a chance you could get a little stuck? 
> 
> Just so you know, the Cuckoo is real. I have one at home, and I'm still a little bit afraid of it! When my guy and I went to Hong Kong last year, the one thing we'd planned on buying was "a new rice cooker". As a matter of fact, it was going to be a Cuckoo all along, I just wasn't aware of this. But ever since we heard about how our friend's Korean roommate had "a rice cooker that could talk", he was obsessed with getting the same one. Going from an ancient rice cooker that needed the cable positioned just right to even work, to one that basically has AI and sings to you... man. It's like some kinda witchcraft.

Basketball practice was _intense_ today – but totally in a good way. They had a practice match against Middle Park High, and basically wiped the _floor_ with them. Clyde’s all fired up now, and so is Token, as they deliberately jostle and mock-punch each other all the way to the bus stop. Neither of them can stop grinning – the way their team won was, in a big way, thanks to the two of them getting so many goals in early. After so many years of playing basketball together, Token and Clyde are a pretty deadly combo. And now? Now, the weekend is spread open before them like a, a smorgasbord of freedom.  
“You wanna come back to my place,” Token asks, oh-so-casually, while Clyde’s busy texting Dad to say they won. Clyde looks up sharply – it’s been what, _two_ days since he went there last, and made an ass of himself. “My parents won’t be home,” he adds, like he can read Clyde’s mind as effortlessly as he can read the bus timetable on that pole in front of them. “Date night.”  
“That’s nice,” Clyde says, looking up at the sky. So blue, for once, with clouds so fluffy and white that they’re almost too perfect, too _real_. He doesn’t remember his own parents doing date night very much; they always had the store to look after. They must’ve done that sometimes, though. They must’ve done _some_ things that made them happy.  
“Earth to Clyde,” Token says, just before he flicks his finger into Clyde’s temple.  
“Ow! Sorry, did you say something?”  
“I was offering to feed your sorry self,” Token says, in that deliberately-not-swearing way of his.  
Clyde gives him a sidelong glance. This is starting to get a little… odd. Did Craig put you up to this, he wants to ask. He bites his bottom lip. “Okay,” he says instead. Maybe he’s just joining up dots in his imagination that are… just dots? Who sets up a, a conspiracy to be _nice_ to someone, anyway? “I mean, thanks,” he amends quickly, swinging his sports bag off his shoulder and unzipping it. Rooting around in there for _something_ means he won’t have to look into Token’s eyes. Because Token has a way of making you say more than you’d planned – there’s this, this _stillness_ about him that Clyde’s always kind of envied, and known he could never copy.  
“Did you leave anything in the locker room,” Token asks, raising one eyebrow.  
“Nope,” Clyde tells him, zipping his bag shut again. “All in here. I’ll totally help,” he adds, testing the waters a little bit. “I helped out at Craig’s, _and_ at Jimmy’s.”  
Just for a second, Token does this thing where he blinks both eyes at once, and Clyde thinks, _Oh-ho_. But Token quickly seems to catch himself. “Good for you,” he says, and then, “Want to make some fish? For a change.” Almost like Token’s daring Clyde to ask him how he knew Clyde’s had chicken two nights in a row.  
“Sounds good,” Clyde replies, nodding to himself. Like he could ever manage to out-Token _Token_. 

Token’s parents have put together an… intimidating kitchen. There are no shinier knives in the world than the ones in their knife block, _and_ they’re enormous. All the appliances like the fridge and the freezer are hidden inside built-in cupboards, and the stuff that they do have on display – a pressure-cooker, a bread-baking machine, a Kitchen-Aid mixer – are all big and shiny, too.  
“Let’s use the Cuckoo,” Token is saying, tapping his hand on a machine that looks like nothing so much as a smallish UFO. Immediately, blue lights flicker on, and a pleasant woman’s voice says, “ _Keep warm, deactivated._ ”  
“What the hell,” Clyde yelps, looking at the numbers scrolling across the front of the thing.  
“Oh, that’s our new rice cooker,” Token says distractedly, twisting a seal on top to pull off the lid. “It’s from Korea. Mom did a lot of research on the different brands, and she said Cuckoo is the best.”  
“It talks to you,” Clyde says, just so Token can confirm he didn’t just imagine that.  
“Yeah – it kind of sings, too,” Token replies, pulling out the inner pot by the little handles on the sides. “To let you know when the rice is done.”  
“Wow.” That’s Token’s parents for you. This sounds _so_ much easier than cooking rice on the stove, though, the way he and Craig did yesterday.  
“Have you tried brown rice before?” Token’s pulled a drawer out, revealing neat rows of glass jars, all with hand-written labels on them. There are at least four different kinds of rice in that drawer – that Clyde can see, anyway. “This one’s a mix of brown rice and red rice. Way healthier than white rice,” he adds, holding up one jar. “It tastes kind of nutty.”  
“I’m nuts about, uh, nutty things,” Clyde jokes weakly, channelling his best Jimmy. Not that it’s terribly successful; you need to think faster than that if you ever want to reach Jimmy’s level.  
Token gives him a long look, before he remembers to smile. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says.  
Next are three pieces of white fish – from the fridge, not from the legendary Black Family Vault, aka the Bottomless Freezer. Wrapped up in a special plastic bag with the price printed on a label on the back, so they’re from the fresh-food counter in… Clyde discreetly tips the package sideways so he can read the logo… Wholefoods? Whoa. And either Token’s mom was expecting him to be extra hungry after practice today… or there really is some kind of conspiracy going on here, because come _on_. Three pieces of fish.  
“I’m turning the oven on,” Token is saying, while he opens a fresh packet of tinfoil. “Can you get the chives out of the fridge for me?” He’s got a baking tray ready, one that’s just the right size for three sides of fish. When Clyde turns back to him, chives in hand, Token has spread three sheets of foil on it. “Watch this,” he says, carefully sliding one piece of fish out of the packet. Using some kind of… spatula-looking thing to place it dead centre on the foil. “Now you do the other two,” he adds, pulling the bouquet of chives, still stuck together with an elastic band, out of Clyde’s grip. “I’m gonna find the almonds.”  
Oh, so this is how it’s going to be, is it? Token does the exact same thing in chemistry, or maths – Clyde secretly thinks of it as the “monkey see” method. First he shows you how it’s done, then he waits for you to copy what he did. Clyde’s passing at least half his subjects thanks to the “monkey see” method, though, so he’s not about to start complaining. Step by step, Token takes him through the process. They both cut up the same amount of chives, then the same amount of almonds. Sprinkle them over the white flesh of the fish, before squirting pre-melted butter over it all from a squeezy-bottle – like, where do you even _buy_ pre-melted butter? – and then wrapping the packages up.  
“Now this goes in the oven,” Token says, slotting the tray inside, “For about twenty minutes. So they’ll be done about the same time as the rice will. The Cuckoo takes thirty-three minutes.”  
“Very scientific,” Clyde says, nodding to himself.  
“I know,” Token replies, making it sound like he’s accepting a compliment. “Can you cut up the organic broccoli, and I’ll fry the Shiitake mushrooms.”  
It’s all Clyde can do not to laugh, because of course Token is being completely serious. “Sure thing, dude,” he says.  
Everything has its place in Token’s kitchen, so when there’s nothing left to do but wait for things to boil and bake, the two of them quickly wash all the knives and tools. Token scrubbing and rinsing them, Clyde drying them off with a crisp white towel that looks and feels brand new.  
“My dad says the dishwasher weakens the glue that keeps the blades in the shafts,” Token says. “He’s like… hung up on the idea. If he finds anything like this in the dishwasher, he’ll take it out and start washing it himself, there and then.” Token rolls his eyes. “And make, like, a total _production_ out of it.”  
“I think he’s right, though,” Clyde says, thinking back to the bread knife back home, that sort of seems to rattle inside the handle when you try to cut stuff with it. That knife _always_ goes in the dishwasher. “Maybe,” he adds quickly, so as not to annoy Token too much.  
Token sighs. “Why do you do that,” he says, passing the last of the knives, hilt first, to Clyde.  
Clyde can feel himself freezing up, and has to force his arm to move so he can take the knife. “Do what,” he asks, and tries for a convincing laugh, a disarming grin. The last thing in the _world_ that he wants to do is piss Token off, but he seems to be doing it without even trying.  
Token shakes the last drops of water off his hands over the sink; then dries them off down the front of his jeans. Watching him, it strikes Clyde how their hands used to be the exact same size, back when they were little. But now, Token’s not just taller, even his hands are longer, the fingers slimmer. “You know,” Token says at last, “You _are_ allowed to have an opinion.”  
“I… I know that,” Clyde mutters, making sure that last knife is completely dry. So why does it feel like he’s suddenly screwed up bad? He draws a deep breath, tries to pull himself together. Let’s his voice go all flat, as he says, “You don’t need to worry about me or anything, just ‘cause I cried like a little bitch the other night.”  
“Jesus,” Token suddenly snaps, and Clyde almost drops the knife on his own foot. “Don’t try that Craig shit on with me!”  
“What do you mean,” Clyde asks, hating how his voice has gone from flat to squeaky so fast.  
“I mean!” Token throws his hands up in frustration. “I mean, not even Craig buys his own bullshit anymore!”  
Behind Clyde, the rice-cooking spaceship suddenly sings out, “Cuc-koo! The release will begin!” A little melody plays, too, weirdly jolly in the suddenly tense atmosphere, as the tops seems to unscrew _itself_ and starts gushing out hot steam.  
“What’s Craig got to do with anything,” Clyde mutters, feeling like he’s already lost this… discussion, or fight, or whatever this is.  
“Please,” Token's voice is thick with sarcasm, or annoyance, or _something_. “Don’t try to tell me you _didn’t_ spend the last ten years copying everything he says and does.”  
It’s like a punch to the gut, even though it’s only the truth. _Especially_ because it’s the truth. “Not everything,” Clyde jokes weakly, as he slides the knife back into its slot in the knife block. “I’m not dating Tweek, am I.”  
Token doesn’t laugh at all. “Seriously, Clyde,” he says, “You’re more than good enough, just being yourself.”  
Clyde turns to look at his friend, _really_ look at him. Token’s grown so damn tall, but he’s still the same Token he’s always been – serious and responsible, the kind of guy who never makes an ass of himself because he thinks things _through_ before he opens his mouth. The kind of guy who’ll call you out on it when you’re being an asshole – precisely _because_ he’s your friend.  
“Thanks,” Clyde says, choking a little.  
“Don’t cry!” Token yells; pointing at him. “Seriously, just don’t!”  
Clyde snorts, he can’t help it. “I think, maybe,” he says, opening the oven and peering inside, “Maybe we all sort of copy bits of each other, without thinking about it so much. Because we’ve been hanging out for so long? You think this is done,” he adds, opening the oven door all the way out.  
“Let me have a look,” Token says, all business-like again, pulling on a pair of black, reinforced oven-mittens that look like something you’d use in a nuclear reactor to handle the uranium rods. “Can you get the plates from the plate warmer? _Without_ making fun of the fact that I _have_ a plate warmer,” he adds, and that’s when Clyde knows for sure he’s been forgiven.  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, man,” Clyde replies, giddy with relief. 

Token always intended that third fish to be for Clyde’s dad – of course he did. There’s definitely some kind of conspiracy going on. “I’m going to just leave it inside the foil,” Token is saying, slipping the packet into a flat Tupperware container, before he squeezes every corner of the blue lid to make sure it’s on right.  
“Okay,” Clyde says, as he scoops the leftover vegetables into a taller, square container – this one with a yellow lid. “That makes sense. Separate container for the rice, right?”  
“Of course!” Token sounds horrified at the very idea of mixing the vegetables and rice. Even though Clyde would bet him dollars to doughnuts that Dad will just chuck it all into the same bowl before he microwaves it. “I hope he likes it,” Token adds, so quietly it’s like he’s talking to himself.  
“Dude, how could he not like it? You’re an amazing cook.”  
“Hey,” Token says, and his tone is almost strict, “We made this together, you know. Make sure to tell him that.”  
“Yeah,” Clyde says, deciding he likes the sound of that. “I guess we did, huh?”


	5. Saturday: Sometimes bad things just happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hi there! We've reached the penultimate chapter of my little cooking conspiracy fic. Thank you so much for reading, as always! You can check back for the last chapter tomorrow. Also, this chapter has some fairly tame Creek action at the end, I didn't think it warranted any warning or tags - but I guess you can consider yourself warned now? 
> 
> Tweek and Clyde is an interesting combination. I don't think they've ever had a scene alone together on the show? So it was fun to put them in a room together and write about it. After Put It Down, I became convinced that baking actually helps Tweek relax, and that it's something he feels he's good at. I headcannon that the Tweaks make all their own baked goods for the shop, rather than have prefab stuff full of preservatives shipped in. 
> 
> So apparently, Tweak Bros offers avocado toast now. On spelt bread, with chili paste and a poached egg. I figured, they must've had to move with the times a little bit. Not every customer wants something sweet with their coffee, after all.

“I thought you might wanna learn how to – gnk – bake bread rolls,” Tweek is saying, while his body gives a quick, involuntary twitch. His right eye blinks, and his right arm jerks backwards, almost elbowing Clyde in the stomach.  
“Sure,” Clyde says, side-stepping him nimbly. They’re in the back room at Tweak Bros, where it turns out there’s a counter and a small oven hidden between all the sacks of coffee beans. It’s way too early for Tweek’s parents to come open the place; on Saturdays the coffee shop stays shut until 10am - but then, it stays open later.  
“Oh. Good,” Tweek says, and seems to relax a little. Maybe he thought Clyde would be sore about getting woken up by his 7am text message on a Saturday. Especially since that message said, _“MEET ME AT THE COFFEE SHOP!! PLEASE!!!”_ followed by five of those screaming emojis.  
But, well. Clyde is on to them by now. You’d have to be _really_ stupid, not to figure out what’s going on here. Not that he minds. It’s kind of sweet, really.  
“It’s, ah, it’s my job to bake them for the customers,” Tweek is saying, while his left eye blinks, seemingly of its own accord. “Along with all the – gnk – the cupcakes and stuff.” For one quick, crazy second, Clyde imagines Tweek hosting a cooking show. He has to swallow a laugh. Would you even be able to _watch_ a show like that? The camera lens would be covered in flour after like, two minutes!  
Clyde suddenly realises that Tweek has stopped talking. That Tweek’s watching him, sort of expectantly. “Sounds more fun than shoe inventory,” Clyde replies, just to say something. He doesn’t really spend that much time alone with Tweek, does he. Normally, if Tweek’s there, then so is Craig. It’s a two-for-one deal these days, which Clyde totally doesn’t mind anymore, for all that _he_ was Craig’s OG bestie. A boyfriend’s different. And Tweek’s _nice_ , Clyde just… just doesn’t really _get_ him, sometimes. Okay, make that _most_ times.  
“I thought – gah – you could take some home for your dad when we’re done?” Tweek holds out a Tweak Bros apron, identical to the one he’s already wearing.  
“Thanks, dude.” Clyde takes it, slips it over his head. Ties the ends in a double bow at one side, just like they always used do in the safety information drills on the plane, when his parents took him to Amsterdam. Huh, it really has been a while since he went. Not since before Mom… “I appreciate it,” he says, firmly cutting off that train of thought.  
“We’ve got to wear these too,” Tweek says apologetically, digging out two hairnets from the front pocket of his apron. “Since we – gnk – sell the other stuff we make in here. Sorry!”  
“Hey, I don’t mind,” Clyde assures him – and just to prove how much he doesn’t mind, he finds himself taking a selfie of the two of them, in their matching dorky-ass hairnets and aprons. Slaps a sepia filter on it, tags Craig, and captions the picture, _“Saturday morning and I’m stealing your boyfriend!”_ which makes Tweek snicker.  
Tweek digs the recipe out while Clyde is still washing his hands in the sink. He’s got a big green ring-binder (of course it’s green) with a lop-sided Tweak Bros sticker on the front, and lots of plastic pockets to keep the different recipes sorted. “It’s actually a recipe for spelt bread that my mom modified,” he’s saying, with just a tiny jerk of his left shoulder. It’s like the kid is starting to relax around him, or something. “Because spelt’s way healthier than – ngh – normal wheat, you know? So if you’ve got a bread pan at home, you can just use that instead.”  
Clyde chews his lip, thinking about it. They _did_ used to have a bread pan, but the last time he saw it was when they painted the garage. Dad had used it for soaking paint brushes in turpentine. “I’m pretty sure we don’t,” he says, shrugging. “So, where do we start?”  
“Well, first, you need to – gah – pre-heat the oven…” It’s a bit like a science class, in the end. Tweek talks him through all the different steps and ingredients; and makes Clyde measure it all out himself. Tweek is actually kind of strict in his own way – he won’t even let Clyde check his phone when it buzzes, even though that’s bound to be a response from Craig.  
“It’s just a photo of him flipping you off,” Tweek says, his right eye blinking twice in rapid succession. Come to think of it, Clyde hasn’t seen him with a coffee cup since he got in here. “You see that everyday anyway.”  
“You’re probably right,” Clyde agrees, doing his best not to laugh as he keeps stirring the dough in the bowl. Tweek’s given him a flat wooden ladle, and this started out easy enough, but now? It’s a bit like trying to stir cement. “Now what?”  
“Let me have a look.” Tweek’s face is all serious as he takes the bowl out of Clyde’s hands. He wrestles with the ladle for a second, then suddenly looks up at Clyde with the biggest, warmest smile ever. “You’re really good at this,” Tweek says. “Way faster than me. Must be nice, being strong,” he adds, shrugging. As if he _wasn’t_ the one who put Craig himself in the hospital, at the tender age of eight. “Okay, so let’s tip this thing out.”  
Tweek divides the dough into two, and they each knead a half on the counter top. It’s weirdly hard work, but in a nice way. And not in the way that schoolwork is work – Clyde’s _making_ something here. It’s a pretty good feeling – reminds him of when he was a kid, and Mom helped him bake lemon bars to sell for charity. Not that Clyde wants to think about Mom.  
“So Tweek,” he says, digging his fingers deep into the coarse dough. “Why’d your parents decide to call you that?”  
“Gah!” As soon as he’s asked, Clyde knows it was one hundred percent the wrong thing to say. Tweek gives such a huge twitch; it almost looks like he’s jumping on the spot. “I don’t know! I hate my name!”  
“Sorry.” Clyde concentrates on kneading for a while, to give Tweek some time to collect himself. Grabs some flour from the little pile Tweek’s poured out between them on the countertop. “I was just wondering,” he goes on, as he rubs the flour over his sticky hands, the way Tweek showed him earlier. “Like, what came first. You, or the coffee shop?”  
“The coffee shop,” Tweek says, in a resigned sort of tone. “My granddad started it, like, _years_ ago, and – gnk – my Dad opened this branch when we moved here. What, you thought they named it after _me_?” Tweek gives a bitter little bark of laughter.  
“Huh. Guess I’m lucky my name isn’t Converse or Reebok,” Clyde jokes weakly. Tweek, who’s washing his hands again, seems to find it funny though.  
“Here, New Balance,” Tweek says, reaching into the pile of flour and taking a handful. “Watch this.” Clyde leans in closer, completely unprepared when Tweek flicks the flour right in his face.  
“Gah! Asshole,” Clyde chokes, even as he starts to laugh. Damn that Tweek, some of that flour went up his _nose_!  
“S-sorry,” Tweek stutters, doubled over with laughter. “You should’ve seen… your face…!”  
“Asshole,” Clyde says again, wiping his nose on his sleeve. It’s got to be pretty obvious he didn’t mean it, though, since he can’t stop grinning and all. He almost gives Tweek a good shove in retaliation, but decides against it at the last second. Tweek’s so damn _thin_ , after all. Clyde always gets the feeling that if he were to roughhouse Tweek in any way, he’d end up snapping the kid in half by accident. Like a damn _twig._  
Once Clyde’s washed his hands too, Tweek shows him how to divvy the dough up, and roll the little lumps between his palm and the countertop. How to slowly cup his hand upward, to shape the rolls _just so_. Tweek makes like, two thirds of the rolls while Clyde’s still struggling to get it right. But in the end, he feels like he’s got this technique _down_. It’s like the feeling of jumping for a basketball, when you know your hand’s going to connect with it.  
The last thing they do is sprinkle some sunflower seeds on top, from a little bag Tweek gets from his backpack, before they put the two trays in the oven. “You can totally have this,” he tells Clyde afterwards, tying the bag of seeds closed with a piece of twine from the top drawer next to them. “You know, in case you wanna – gnk – bake more at home sometime?” He ties in a bow, like there’s cookies in there or something, and the bow’s surprisingly straight. Maybe it’s actually Tweek, and not his mom, who puts together all those little takeaway cookie bags they sell?  
“Uh, thanks.” Clyde didn’t bring his own backpack over, so he ends up just shoving the bag of seeds inside his coat pocket. “So now what,” he asks, while Tweek is fiddling with the oven dial. “I guess we need to wait in here, right? In case they get burned?”  
“Uh-huh,” Tweek says, well, almost yells. All of a sudden, he’s nervous again – and here Clyde thought he’d started to relax. “But I thought, while we – gnk – wait, we could, like, make something else!?” Two blinks with his left eye, three with his right. “I mean, I looked up some recipes online, and I bought…” Tweek bends over, pulls a grocery bag out from one of the low cupboards built into the kitchen counter. “I bought some ingredients, so maybe…?”  
“Maybe what,” Clyde asks, as gently as possible, because Tweek seems to have got himself stuck.  
“Maybe you could teach me to make lemon bars?!”  
What is this feeling? Like having a lump of ice in his stomach. “No,” Clyde says, and it sounds a lot more… final than he intended. A lot colder. “That was my mom’s recipe. I haven’t made those since she died.”  
“But…” Tweek squeezes his eyes shut. “But why not?”  
“Because I killed her, that’s why,” Clyde shouts, and instantly regrets it.  
Tweek opens his eyes. He doesn’t seem pissed that Clyde went and raised his voice at all. The way Tweek looks at him, so sad and gentle, makes Clyde drop his gaze to the floor.  
“You know, Clyde,” Tweek says, and his voice is suddenly all calm, “Sometimes bad things just happen.”  
Clyde can’t help but look at Tweek then, even though he _knows_ he’s on the tipping point of bawling like a little kid. _Again._ “I don’t know if you – gah – if you feel like we’re friends, or… Or if you just put up with me for Craig’s sake, but…” Tweek’s all jittery now, all hands and elbows, moving, twitching, blinking while he talks. “But you’re – gnk – one of the nicest people I know!” He almost screams that last bit of his weird little confession, and his whole face turns bright red, almost instantly. “And I, I don’t think you could _ever_ kill anyone!”  
“I didn’t _mean_ to,” Clyde hears himself say, before he has to gasp for air. Folding over himself, gritting his teeth against it as his body starts to shake. It’s so damn embarrassing, and not in the least because he’s doing it in front of Tweek, of all people. But it’s not like he can hold it back, because he never can. From zero to a hundred, like Craig said the other day. From being normal and in control, to crying his eyes out. In front of _Tweek_.  
“Clyde? I really wanna give you a hug. Would that be okay?”  
He can’t help but straighten up, swallowing his own salty snot, and look at Tweek – who’s giving him this shy, hopeful smile while he chews on his bottom lip. Clyde doesn’t trust his voice, but at least he can nod.  
“Okay.” Tweek wraps his skinny arms around Clyde’s back, and gently, shakily, pushes Clyde’s face into the curve of his own neck. He’s a _lot_ shorter; Clyde feels like he’s bent almost double. His own body shakes, slowly and horribly, while Tweek’s bony torso quivers against him at the highest speed ever. This must be what it’s like to hold a hummingbird between your palms, Clyde thinks disjointedly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear what Mom said just before she died; her words thick and desperate with pain. _“For your sister’s sake! Please!”_ Even though Clyde knows he’s never had a sister. But this is the one thing he’s never let slip, not even to Craig. Because Dad had enough to worry about at the time, paying for the funeral and looking after the store on his own. And even as a snot-nosed kid, Clyde knew that having voices in your head was a bad thing.  
“I never… told anybody this, but…” Clyde chokes on the words for a moment, but Tweek just waits. “I sometimes hear my mom’s voice. Like, in my head,” he adds, just to clarify that he _knows_ he’s nuts.  
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek mutters, but he just hugs Clyde even tighter. “That’s awful! Does she tell you to do stuff, or…”  
“No, it’s not like that.” Huh, that’s odd. Clyde’s just realised his heart isn’t pounding anymore. For some reason, talking about this seems to be calming him down. “It’s more like… Playing a track on repeat, you know? Every word’s always the same.” He straightens up, pushes Tweek aside just a bit, so he can rub his hand across his eyes.  
“So it’s like a… flashback?” Tweek draws that last word out, while his left eye blinks furiously. “A war flashback?”  
Clyde stares at him. That’s totally a Craig expression that Tweek’s gone and stolen. Craig sometimes jokes around, in that super dry way of his, about having war flashbacks from the fourth grade. But now, it’s making Clyde think about all those movies where soldiers come back home, only they’re still hearing explosions and helicopters and stuff… Wait, is _that_ what this is?  
Just then, the oven timer dings, and Tweek screams – right into Clyde’s ear. It’s so weirdly funny; he can’t _help_ but laugh. And it’s contagious; Tweek giggles like a little kid even as he apologises, putting on a pair of white oven mittens covered in burn marks and grease stains. “Hey, look,” he says, pulling the top tray halfway out. “These turned out pretty good!” It’s like he’s already forgotten about Clyde crying like a girl, as Tweek takes out four cork-pads from the middle drawer and carefully balances the tray on two of them. “Let’s just – gnk – give them a minute to cool, and then we’ll take them back to your house. O-okay?” He pulls the second tray out, then looks up at Clyde, hopeful as a puppy. “We can bake lemon bars some other time, maybe?”  
Wait a minute…  
“You don’t think I’m crazy,” Clyde says, stunned.  
Tweek shakes his head, and his smile is so warm and kind, and not nervous at all. “Nope,” he said, as casually as if he’s turning down a sip of someone else’s soda. “Just flashbacking.” What? Is that even a word? Tweek gets out a handful of towels, green with white stripes, from the bottom drawer. When he shoves them into Clyde’s arms, he notices that Tweek’s hands are shaking, but no more than usual. “Wrap the rolls up in these, okay? When they’re not too hot to touch. I’m just gonna get some coffee beans for your dad…”  
Clyde washes his hands first, before he spreads the biggest towel out on the counter. The bread rolls are still warm, each like a little living creature. He imagines waking Dad up, for a breakfast he’s literally made himself. “You’ll stay for breakfast, right,” he asks, as Tweek shoves a two-kilo sack of freshly ground java into his flimsy-looking backpack.  
“I was… kinda planning to,” Tweek says, holding up two strange little plastic thingamajigs that he’s taken out of his bag to make space for the coffee. “I got some avocadoes. And I poach a kickass egg,” he adds, with a proud little tilt to his chin. “I can totally show you how.”  
“Okay. And, uh…” Clyde picks up the bag of ingredients Tweek showed him earlier. Lets it dangle from his fingers while he draws a deep, deep breath. “Can I take these? I’ll pay you back,” he adds, because it really wouldn’t be right to just _take_ them. Not after he went and _shouted_ at Tweek.  
“You don’t have to,” Tweek says, with like, the warmest smile in the _world._ “You –gah – really don’t have to!” 

Craig’s not exactly asleep when Tweek climbs through his bedroom window. After all, that damn Instagram alert from Clyde’s stupid picture woke him up at like, seven thirty. Then, he had his alarm set to go off twenty minutes ago, so he could slip out of bed to open the window latch and lower the fire ladder. Only to slip right back in again, because a Saturday is still a Saturday. So Craig’s been drifting in and out of sleep, in that warm, lazy way you can when there’s nothing you have to do, nowhere you need to be.  
It’s funny, for a guy who can startle _himself_ by slamming a door; Tweek is remarkably unafraid of heights. First the window creaks, then there’s a thump as Tweek either jumps or flops inside – sounds like he landed on both feet. “Hey,” he whispers, like he’s worried about waking Craig up after that landing.  
“Hey honey,” Craig mutters, prying one eye open. Tweek dumps his backpack on the floor with a thunk. It’s that shitty dark green polyester thing he’s had for like, five _years_. Craig knows for a fact there’s a hole in the corner that Tweek’s sealed up with goddamn _masking tape._ Tweek’s parents really ought to spring for a new one, but knowing them, they haven’t even _noticed_ that damn hole. Now Tweek’s standing on one leg, yanking his shoe off, the too-long sleeves of his red sweatshirt flapping. Clyde must’ve lent it to him; that thing looks vaguely familiar. Craig shuffles closer to the wall, lifts a corner of the duvet up. Huh, Tweek’s not wearing socks again.  
“Thanks,” Tweek whispers, crawling into bed next to him and wrapping both his hands, sleeves and all, around Craig’s right arm. Tugging on it, like he’s trying to gauge how awake Craig is.  
“Ugh!” Craig gives a twitch as Tweek’s ice-cold foot brushes against his own leg. “Wear socks, goddamn it,” he mutters, moving his leg away.  
“I couldn’t find any.” At least Tweek has the sense to sound embarrassed about that – and he should be! There’s still snow outside, after all. His boyfriend really needs to develop some damn survival instincts.  
Craig kisses the closest bit of Tweek’s face – which turns out to be his nose, much to Tweek’s amusement – with both eyes shut. For all that he’s shaking very slightly, Tweek’s body, pressed against his, is warm. Thanks to Clyde pressing a sweater on him, probably. But why couldn’t Clyde have made him take some socks, too, while he was at it?  
“Mr Donovan’s the _nicest_ dad,” Tweek says, burrowing under Craig’s arm like a puppy. His heartbeat, thumping against Craig’s arm, is already a _lot_ slower than normal.  
“Mm,” Craig says, sleepily rubbing his nose against the spot in Tweek’s hair where his cowlick is. It’s totally _there_ , hidden underneath all the frizz, the centre of a little blonde spiral that smells of... Craig’s nose curls as he sniffs Tweek’s hair. Smells good, whatever it is. “You think he’s nicer than _my_ dad,” he teases gently, pulling his arm out of Tweek’s grip so he can use it to scoop him close instead. Making sure to face away from his boyfriend because, well, morning breath.  
“Oh _no_ ,” Tweek whispers, pretending to be all horrified. “Your dad’s in his own league!”  
Craig chuckles, deep in his throat. It doesn’t really surprise him, how much Tweek seems to love his father, for all that he likes to get into Craig’s business. In Craig’s book, that’s a hundred times better than giving as little of a damn as Tweek’s own dad does.  
“So, how’d it go,” he mutters, a little more awake now. “You didn’t do all the work for him, right?”  
“Nah,” Tweek says, and he sounds really content. “Clyde worked hard.”  
“Good.” Lying on his back with Tweek’s head on his chest, and one hand tangled in Tweek’s hair… it’s not a bad start to his Saturday at all. “And Mr Donovan liked it – right?”  
“He was sooo happy,” Tweek drawls, like the cheeky little asshole he is. Craig laughs again. “I brought some beans for him, too – the good stuff, you know? And then they don’t even have a French press! I had to brew it in this jam-jar I found! I had to use _kitchen paper_ instead of a filter!”  
“Call Amnesty,” Craig mutters, raising an eyebrow. “Nobody should have to live like that.”  
Tweek snorts against his neck. Then he tenses. Out of the corner of his eye, Craig can see him chewing the side of his bottom lip, even as his body starts to shake a little. “Did something happen,” he asks, as casually as he can manage. With Tweek, it’s like that time Tricia was little and scraped her knee. It had been just the two of them out in the yard, but because Craig had kept his cool and told her it didn’t look so bad, his sister hadn’t cried at all. Not even when he’d taken her up to the bathroom and disinfected it with iodine. If he doesn’t act like it’s a big deal – whatever “it” might be – chances are about 50-50 that Tweek will stay calm. Or as close to calm as Tweek gets, anyway.  
“I guess… he didn’t tell me _not_ to tell you.”  
Something in Tweek’s tone makes Craig push himself up on his elbow. “Tell me what, babe,” he asks.  
“I don’t think Clyde’s okay,” Tweek mutters, burying his face in the front of Craig’s pyjama shirt.  
“His mom, huh,” Craig says, when Tweek stays quiet. “Did he – ” Craig’s about to say “cry”, but he never gets that far, because Tweek puts his fingertips over his mouth. Slowly, in trickles, he explains the whole thing. Everything Clyde’s just told him, in confidence. Everything he’s never, for some reason, been able to tell _Craig_.  
“Shit,” Craig says, with gusto. All these years, he’s had this feeling he’s never been able to shake. That something is way more off than Clyde’s been willing to let on. He’s just never made himself ask because, well… Craig’s not good at stuff like that.  
“Just don’t be pissed ‘cause it was _me_ he told,” Tweek says, way more perceptive than he has any right to be. “I think it was just easier, since I’m… you know.”  
“A spaz?” Craig raises an eyebrow.  
“Right,” Tweek grins ruefully. He shifts, burrowing back down under the duvet, and Craig gives a start when Tweek’s warm little hand is suddenly inside his pyjama shirt. “Craig? Was there… something wrong with his mom? Like, I never really met her, but…”  
“Lucky you,” Craig drawls, and then instantly feels bad. He shifts, too, lets his hand slide up the back of Tweek’s sweater. “I mean, she could be really nice. But she could be pretty scary, too.” Craig lets himself sink down into the mattress, while his index finger traces little circles on Tweek’s back. “None of our parents ever bothered explaining it to us, but Token’s got some theories. You know he likes to read up on stuff. ”  
“Yeah,” Tweek says drily, his fingers tapping out a quick little beat on Craig’s chest. “Last week, I saw him reading this book during recess called “Living with ADHD”.”  
“Hah! That just proves he likes you!” Suddenly, Craig remembers something. “So what’s the verdict,” he drawls. “Does Clyde really hate you, or what?”  
Tweek sighs. “Let me just show you what he sent me,” he says, twisting under the duvet as he tries to pull his phone out of his back pocket. “After I left his house.”  
It’s kind of nice, Craig reflects, to see how Tweek’s gradually _slowed down _since he climbed in here. His pulse, his speech, everything. No more grunts or facial tics. Tweek’s parents act like Craig’s some kind of… Tweek whisperer, and that just pisses Craig off, but still… He’s got to admit he likes it, the way Tweek will just relax around him.__  
“Here!” Tweek holds up his phone screen, and Craig puts his hand around his wrist, tilting it so he can read the message out loud.  
“Thanks for everything, Tweek,” Craig reads matter-of-factly. “Now that you’ve shat in our toilet and held me while I cried, I guess we are officially friends.”  
Craig starts to laugh, he can’t help himself. “Clyde should… write Hallmark cards…” he wheezes, while Tweek desperately tries to shush him.  
“Jesus, shut up,” Tweek hisses, poking Craig in his side with a bony finger. “What’s the – gnk – _point_ of me climbing through the window if you – gah! – wake up your parents _anyway_?!”


	6. Sunday and Monday: Lemon bars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! We've reached the final chapter of this fic! Thank you for sticking with me until the end! I hope you've enjoyed it, and if anybody would like to drop me a comment about how they felt this thing worked as a whole, I'd be sooo happy (sorry not sorry). 
> 
> As you'll see, I've written Clyde's mom as though she was literally Dutch, as in from the Netherlands... that's just what I thought when I saw the Wunterslash episode, that she'd have married Clyde's dad and officially emigrated to the States. But I guess that wound up being my theory because I live in Europe, where it's totally common for people to move countries like that. It was only after I'd started writing this fic that I remembered how Americans sometimes refer to their heritage that way. Like, "I'm Sweedish" or I'm Irish". Still, I like the idea of Betsy (Betje?) Donovan stubbing her toe and cussing in Dutch for like five minutes straight...
> 
> Finally, I've thought of a fun idea for a drinking game: read this whole fic, and every time a character says "You know", have a drink. You'll be nice and pickled in no time...

It’s Sunday morning, and Clyde and his dad really should start getting ready for church soon. But for now, Clyde’s still in his pyjamas, and that gross pair of yellow crocks they share, that’s just for when you need to go out into the back yard in a hurry. No wonder those things got remaindered. They’ve got enough of those bread rolls for at least two more days, and that’s after Dad’s eaten two for breakfast, while Clyde’s had three.  
“Say, Dad?” Clyde’s rinsing off the plates in the sink, before slipping them into the dishwasher – he insisted on doing it, so Dad could sit back and enjoy the last of his coffee. After Tweek brewed coffee in the empty pasta jar yesterday, Dad drove out to the 99 Cent Store and got himself a nice French press. Something about how Tweek had exclaimed, “You don’t even have a coffee pot,” in the same tone you might use to say, “What do you mean there’s no flushing toilet,” must have really struck a nerve with Dad. Clyde instagrammed a picture of Dad holding the thing up over his head like a football trophy – Dad’s always up for doing silly stuff like that when he’s had enough sleep – and tagged Tweek in it. Clyde had sat down and counted the thumbs-up emojis Tweek had replied with – there had been _fourteen_ of them.  
“Yes?” Dad’s wearing that old Nike hoodie he once got for free from a sales rep over his flannel pyjamas, and balancing his bare feet on the wooden bar that runs under the kitchen table. His hair is thinning a little on top now, and he’s fixed his glasses with some packing tape where one side of the frame’s gone and cracked – and not because Dad can’t afford the optometrist. Clyde knows he’s just not had the time to get them repaired. Dad looks all faded and worn-out from working too much, from doing everything on his own. At least he can take most weekends off these days; there’s _one_ small advantage to running your own store.  
“Can I ask you something? About Mom,” Clyde adds quickly, in case that’s too much, this early in the day.  
“Of course you can,” Dad says, and he even smiles a little, like it doesn’t hurt to think of her at all.  
Clyde draws a deep breath. Okay, it’s now or never. “What did she mean, when she said I had a sister?”  
“Oh.” Dad lowers his coffee mug. Wraps his fingers around it, so his hands almost hide the faded Birkenstock logo. “That was… a long time ago. Before I met her, before she’d even moved to the States.” Dad nods a couple of times, like he’s telling himself it’s okay to keep talking. “She was about the same age as you are now,” he says, looking up at Clyde, his lips pulling back in an apologetic smile, “When she gave birth to a baby girl.”  
There’s a whooshing sound in Clyde’s ears, and he has to steady himself against the kitchen counter. His legs have suddenly turned to jelly. “Okay,” he hears himself say.  
“Betsy never liked to talk about it,” Dad goes on, after a fortifying sip of coffee. “But let’s just say the father wasn’t in the picture. And she always felt that her parents forced her to give the baby up for adoption. That’s why she wanted to study abroad, she told me… She wanted a clean slate.” Unconsciously, Dad sweeps his hand over the table when he says that, brushing aside some stray crumbs. “Clyde, come sit down, okay?”  
“Okay,” Clyde says again. His head feels empty – no thoughts, no anything – and just walking over to the table is like walking across the bottom of a swimming pool.  
“She didn’t want to tell you about it until you were much older,” Dad says, taking Clyde’s right hand and wrapping both his own hands around it. They’re still warm from holding the coffee mug, and Clyde suddenly remembers, out of nowhere, how his own hands used to be so small that they’d both disappear inside one of Dad’s hands. But now, their hands are the same size, just as big and wide. “I figured, that was her choice, so I…” he shrugs, but Clyde gets it – arguing with Mom never got you anywhere. “It was extra hard for Betsy, since the adoption agency offered to give her contact information to her daughter, once she turned eighteen. She was hoping for that. But her daughter turned it down.”  
“Damn,” Clyde mutters, pulling up his right hand – and Dad’s hands along with it, all in one big knot. He rests his forehead against that knot, closing his eyes. “So that’s what it was.”  
“At the same time, though, I’d never have met her if she hadn’t gone for that scholarship, and moved to Colorado. And then, we’d never have had you. So even when bad things happen, they sometimes lead to good things happening, right?”  
“I guess.” It’s when you’re trying not to move, not even open your eyes in case you’ll start crying, that you really notice smells. Like the bitter, but somehow soothing smell of Dad’s coffee, or the sharp citrus from Clyde’s own half-finished glass of orange juice. “I guess I wasn’t enough, though. If she missed her first kid so much…”  
“Of course she loved you, son,” Dad says, and there’s a bit of a catch in his voice. “Even when she got a bit… Erratic, that doesn’t mean she stopped caring about you. I probably could have handled all that better, but…” No, he couldn’t have. Clyde knows full well his dad has never been good with confrontation; he hates even having to raise his voice. So when Mom started yelling over the littlest things, Dad wasn’t exactly well prepared for it. “Well, by the time I realised how bad it was…”  
“No, I get it.” And Clyde does understand; he really does. Because the way Mom started to change, the way she’d get more and more unpredictable, it was all so… incremental. Like watching Jimmy _walk_ on the elliptical for a whole semester, a little bit faster each time, and then suddenly to realise he’s started _running._ All those little changes, slowly adding up.  
“You know, Clyde,” Dad is saying, “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve really enjoyed all the homemade food these past few days, but your schoolwork has to come first, okay?”  
“I liked it, though,” Clyde mutters. “Cooking. It made me feel… better about stuff.”  
“Stuff,” Dad asks, and Clyde can only shrug.  
“You know… stuff.”  
“Clyde.” Suddenly, Dad sounds almost strict, “I’ve never blamed you. Not for a second. You know that, right?”  
Clyde looks up, at Dad’s big, kind eyes, made even bigger by the glasses he’s peering through. “I know,” he says, because it’s true. Dad’s way too kind to ever have thought it was his fault. “Dad? Do you remember her lemon bars?”  
A wistful expression passes over Dad’s face. “Mhm,” he says, “They were pretty good, huh? Too bad she wrote out the recipe in Dutch. I only ever learned enough to work out when she and your Oma were talking about me behind my back.”  
Clyde bites his lip, even as he starts to grin. “Well, here’s the thing…”

All they’re doing is, they’re having lunch. In the school cafeteria, same as always. Except Clyde’s acting all secretive and weird, insisting they get one of the small corner tables so it’ll just be the five of them. He’s brought his backpack with him, too, and he’s been guarding that thing like a hawk all morning. Now he’s wolfed down his own lunch, boiled eggs and all, and is watching everyone else eating theirs. Like he’s _willing_ them all to chew faster. Which doesn’t exactly create a relaxed dining atmosphere – Tweek’s already choked on his food twice. Meanwhile, Clyde just keeps bouncing his backpack on his knee like a baby. It’s like he’s _dying_ for someone to ask what he’s got in there.  
“What’s the big deal, Clyde,” Token says, cracking at last. “Please tell me you didn’t bring a six-pack to school.” It’s the craziest thing he can think of; he doesn’t _really_ believe Clyde would do anything quite that stupid.  
“No! Are you nuts, man,” Clyde hisses, arms curling protectively around his bag. “It’s supposed to be dessert! Only _some_ people have to chew every mouthful fifty times.” Clyde shoots a dirty look at Tweek, who somehow manages to growl back at him with his mouth full. “So I guess I might as well just take these out now.”  
Out comes a canvas Wholefoods bag, and from that, a… package, of some sort, wrapped up in two Tweek Bros towels. Once Clyde’s carefully unwrapped those, Token recognises the Tupperware boxes he sent Clyde home with last Thursday. There are a couple of takeout containers too, packed tightly with something bright yellow. It’s not until Craig’s reached over and pulled one of the lids off that the smell hits Token – and it’s like being punched in the nose by his own childhood.  
“Lemon bars,” Craig says, almost reverently.  
“A-a-are those your m-m-mom’s lemon bars,” Jimmy yelps, so startled that his stutter’s going off the charts.  
“So you _did_ bake them!” Tweek is grinning at Clyde like they’re sharing some kind of secret.  
“Yup,” Clyde says proudly, “Dad and I pretty much spent all of yesterday baking, soon as we got home from church!” As he starts passing the boxes around, he says, “I thought we could have some now, and then you guys could take the rest of ‘em home? As, ah, as thanks, you know. For teaching me how to cook and stuff. Which was the _worst_ kept secret conspiracy in the world, by the way,” he adds, but he doesn’t sound too unhappy about it.  
“Gah! This is so good,” Tweek almost yells, chomping through a lemon bar _way_ faster than he was eating his soggy veggie burger just a moment ago.  
“Dude, these are _just like_ the ones your Mom used to make,” Craig is saying, talking with his mouth full.  
“We had to use Google translate on the recipe,” Clyde says, as he swipes a lemon bar for himself from the box Jimmy’s holding. “Like, I tried to just read it, but my Dutch is the _pits_ now.”  
“Hey Token,” Jimmy says, nudging Token, “Aren’t you going to…” his voice trails off, and his eyes widen in alarm. “A-Are you… G-guys, Token’s crying!”  
“I’m, I’m not,” Token hiccups, scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes. His voice sounds all horrible and thick, though, and he’s having a hard time shaping the words in his mind, let alone saying them out loud. “It’s just… I never thought I’d get to… to eat these again, and they were always my favourite, and…”  
There’s also the relief washing over him, so strong, it’s like being drunk. Because Token suddenly _knows_ that Clyde’s going to be okay. He _knows,_ with a bone-deep certainty he can’t even begin to explain, that his friend will _never_ turn out the way his mother did.  
“Aw, Token,” Clyde says, slipping his arm around Token’s shoulders and giving them a squeeze. “You big flagpole softie, you!”  
“I’m, I’m _not_ a flagpole,” Token chokes, while Jimmy musses his hair, and Tweek presses a packet of tissues into his hand. Damn, just as well Clyde insisted on a corner table! At least nobody else in here seems to have noticed.  
“Yes you are,” Craig says, and when Token looks up, Craig’s leaning across the table, grinning at him. “A flagpole, _and_ a crybaby.” Craig sounds so damn _fond;_ it makes Token’s heart swell until his chest actually hurts. “Now stop bawling so you can eat!”  
Token sniffs one more time, then raises his hand and flips Craig off, to hoots of approval from Jimmy and Tweek.  
“See,” Clyde whispers in Token’s ear, and his breath smells of lemon and powdered sugar. “I _told_ you we all rub off on each other!”


End file.
